Poetry, Pain, Storytime and Introspection

These phases and phrases that pass us off as normal, do us few favors.

Normal is hiding, normal is manning up or doing as you’re told instead of what’s right.

It’s keeping silent and saying everything is fine when you’ve bought the gun.

It’s saying I need to work through this alone when being alone makes it worse but we enshrine independence as some kind of peak but it’s other people who lift us up.

It’s being cruel to get the laugh and watching their heart crumble a little.

It’s presenting strength and calm
when inside the storm is raging
and just one touch or word could make all the difference
but no one knows to say
because this facade we build is crafted day by day
and today it looks like any other.

Normal is the killer of dreams and the striving for the middle when the extraordinary is right around the corner.

It’s the lie we tell ourselves to make it all better, that this is normal.

That we have to accept this because most people do
but the truth is we don’t really know
because we are all trying so hard to present normal.

We’re dying from normal. We’re losing our selves to normal. We’re slipping away day by day feeding into the great churn of buy this, it’s normal.

But it’s not too late to steal their normal and make it steel toed boots and black dresses and 5 o’clock shadow.

It’s not too late to make this normal their weird. Weird is their term for different, for outliers.

Weird is my term for kindred. I like your weird. Be weird with me. Fuck normal.